An Afternoon in the Life of Lois Lane, Pin Dropper
by Valentine Michel Smith
Summary: SR universe. Lois and Clark rekindle their friendship, plus. Maybe. Lois POV. Complete.


**Authors' Notes**: SR universe. Lois & Clark.  
**Authors**: Val & LaT  
**Summary**: Lois and Clark rekindle their friendship, plus. Maybe. Lois POV.

**

An Afternoon in the Life of Lois Lane, Pin Dropper

**

Lois is bitching about Perry - to the floor. The floor wasn't the original recipient of the diatribe, but Jimmy gets called into Perry's office as Lois looks for the pin Richard gave her last week. The mysterious loss is one of those "Lois events": the clasp obviously undid itself because she's absolutely certain she shut the damn thing. She's not really sure where she lost it, but she tries to convince herself she heard it drop. The pin's pretty enough and yeah, sentimental blah-blah-yadda, but it's the blue box that motivates the drop-and-crawl. Damn Richard for spending so much.

Lois stops. There're unfamiliar shoes (Ferragamo?) attached to unfamiliar legs (because she'd notice length and thighs like that) that lead up to a very promising crotch (hell, not dead, no harm in looking) that lead to an absolutely delicious fisherman's sweater (black, cashmere). The chest that fills that sweater gives her pause, so she does. Looking isn't cheating, so she keeps looking without going further, ignoring the shoulders and the neck and the face -

"Lois?"

"Clark?"

This is what she gets for wearing jewelry.

Lois takes in one last (not too-)lingering look at Clark's chest and works her way up to his face. She finds herself surprised to note the fullness of his lower lip and the seeming softness of the upper one and why, exactly, is she cataloguing the qualities of Clark's mouth?

"Did you … did you lose something?" Clark's expression is open and inquisitive and it's not that he looks particularly _different_ (same thick, shaggy hair, same thick, heavy-rimmed glasses, but his eyes must seem so startlingly blue because of the all-black thing he's got going on) so much as it is that he looks like … _more_. More at ease than usual, more relaxed than usual and if Lois didn't know better, she might be inclined to think he was secretly laughing, if not at, then at least near, her.

"A pin Richard gave me. A dragonfly. Very pretty. _Very_ expensive."

Clark's perfectly symmetrical eyebrows (impressive in a man, truth be told) draw together for the barest fraction of a moment and then he says, brightly, "Did you try behind the trash can?"

She thinks she already had but as suggestions go, it isn't wacky and she had been ranting, so she could have overlooked it. She looks and, wonder of wonders, there it is. "Gotcha." Lois stands and runs a careful hand down her skirt to smooth it out. Clark's legs don't seem any less long now that she's on her feet. The dimple in his right cheek provokes her to smile. "Thanks."

Both dimples now and Clark's answering smile is sweet in a way that makes Lois' own smile a little wider. Not that her opinion on it means anything of significance, but Lois thinks he should wear black more often.

Lois coughs. It's the only way she's able to distract herself, which clearly she needs to do because she's currently thinking, wow, she's not really sure. Okay, she _is_ sure, and whoa, where did that come from? She fumbles with the pin, attempting to keep the focus on something not Clark, to stop herself from looking _again_ because, what is it about Clark Kent in black with hair that's thick and shaggy and mussable that's making her –

"Oww!" The first attempt to reaffix the pin does not go well. She uses every ounce of her resolve to keep her eyes on the spot just below her shoulder where the pin is meant to be. She's not a schoolgirl, she's Lois freakin' Lane, and she _can_ put that pin back where it came from.

Lois watches the pin slide through the fabric – and back out again. It's war, and the dragonfly is winning.

Wordlessly, Clark's hands are there, large and warm and gentle. "May I?' he asks. Lois prays he doesn't add a second wound to keep the first company.

She watches Clark's fingers move. Their adroitness is a marvel.

He pins the dragonfly effortlessly to her blouse.

"Thanks. Redux."

Lois keeps staring at the pin, waiting.

Clark doesn't go away.

In fact, Clark is standing so close that Lois feels the heat radiating from his body. He's practically a human furnace and it shouldn't be as surprising as it is. As Lois has just been rather unexpectedly (if appealingly) reminded, Clark is ... a big boy. There's a lot of him to keep warm.

"So," Clark starts a few seconds later, and Lois keeps herself from jumping through sheer force of will, "have you had lunch yet?"

Come to think of it, she hasn't. That might have been where she was headed before getting sidetracked with Operation Pin Location.

Richard's tied up with some crisis related to the international edition's lead story for tomorrow and she doesn't have to pick Jason up until 5:30 thanks to school play rehearsals. And for once, she's got everything turned in a full 24 hours before her deadlines. It's one of those rare days in Lois' life when she can afford to go to lunch for longer than the time it takes a cigarette to burn.

"No, I haven't," and right on cue, her stomach grumbles. She laughs. "But apparently I need to!"

Clark smiles. "Well, then maybe we could have lunch together. We still really haven't had a chance to catch up since I got back. It would be my treat."

They haven't spent much time together at all in the two weeks since Clark's return from … wherever it was Clark went. Between Superman's sudden reappearance and Lex Luthor's consistent if newly amped-up insanity, Clark was something of an afterthought.

Lois decides it's time to change that. She and Clark were friends, somewhat, before he left. There isn't any good reason they can't be friends again.

"Let's go Dutch. And I get to pick the place."

"Swell!"

Lois refuses to be concerned by how charming she finds Clark's response.

Lois considers White Castle. The thought of Clark, hands – no _paws_ - wrapped around a slider amuses her, even in the absence of the actuality. She quickly changes locales mentally; she's in the mood for meat, _beef_, and sliders, well, the jury's still out on that one.

Lois opts instead for McHale's, the dive pub that's so "atmospheric," it strikes fear in the heart of Jimmy Olsen. It's close enough to work to be accessible by foot, but not so close she and Clark are likely to run into anyone from the office. If she's going to spend time with Clark, Lois wants him to herself. Not that anyone besides Jimmy would be likely to chat Clark up anyway.

They make it to the pub after Clark pulls Lois from the path of oncoming traffic not once, but twice. Or was it three times? Lois's so busy talking about a pile of nothing, she's not sure. Something about Clark's got her off her game, and like the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter she is, she's gonna look him in the eye and get to the bottom of it.

"Lois?"

"Huh?" Clark's staring. Not in a "what's your damage?" kind of way, but in a "Is there something I can do to help?" kind of way. His eyes are so full of sincere want, so brimming with a desire to be useful, Lois can only blink in response.

"Morse code? One long, one short, three long – 'no'?"

Lois stares back, then laughs. She makes a mental note whoever called Clark "corny" was a moron.

"You haven't touched your burger."

True enough. She'd been contentedly watching Clark, his paws – uh, _hands_ - wrapped around a burger the size of his head, cheese and tomatoes and bacon not spilling out but somehow, in utter defiance of every principle of physics and every law of gravity, remaining intact.

Simultaneously, intervention and excuse arrive, thanks to (badge says) _Miriam's_ opportune reappearance. "Your mayo, Ms. Lane."

Lois rolls her head toward Clark in that "Don't you know anything?" way she favors when she's nearly busted. "Just waiting for the mayo, Clark." She takes the knife, digging in, delivering mayonnaise to the toasted side of the bun. Lois adds extra pickles and jalapeños to the burger side before dousing the whole lot in ketchup.

Taking the burger in hand, Lois raises it upwards, watching ground beef and jalapenos and onions make a break for it.

Clark snorts, choking back a laugh in an effort Lois knows is all about farm manners and how Clark's not likely to make fun of others or get his yucks at someone else's expense, but the rain of food won't stop despite her efforts. Soon, Clark chortles, and Lois is laughing too, wiping her hands on a napkin before she plates the empty bun.

Clark sips his beer. He places the glass gently on the table, coughs lightly and lifts his head. "I've missed you, Lois. I've missed... _us_."

She'd say it's the beer talking, but she's never seen Clark drunk. (Would that the converse were also true.) No matter what he drinks or how much, Clark manages to stay stone cold sober, and today, he's only had half a pint of Metropolis lager. "I missed us too, Clark." There's truth in the statement, so much truth that her words settle comfortably as she peers into those startlingly blue eyes and takes his hand.

She still hasn't asked him a single question.

Lois and Clark spend over three hours at lunch, a third of which Lois spends trying to corral her meal. Her effortless bursts of laughter underscore she hasn't felt this relaxed around anyone in a long time – not even Richard. Richard makes her feel a lot of things, but mostly necessary and safe. Clark? Lois still can't quite put her finger on it, but there's something about the way he looks at her with his full attention, like she's the only woman on the planet that makes for ease and... _comfort_. Clark's warm and bright and witty and she really shouldn't be having this much fun.

Miriam delivers the check to Clark. Instantly, Lois plucks the tip tray up, does tip math (out loud). She pulls a stack of crumpled bills from her purse, and shoves the tray back at the waitress before she has a chance to leave the table.

"I thought you called Dutch."

"Things happen fast here in the city, Clark," She watches as Clark's shoulders droop faintly. The farm dig bothers him? "I changed my mind," she says, her tone softening as she makes a mental note to opstay with the armfay jabs. "Woman's prerogative – look it up."

Lois is out of the pub before Clark's mouth opens. Stopping abruptly in the doorway, she whirls. Clark pulls up short, narrowly missing direct and inadvertent contact. Lois is already stumbling back to avoid the (previously) impending collision. She successfully puts more space between them. In her haste, Lois neglects to factor in the stairs.

Lois is tumbling down a trio of steps when she hears the soft "Don't worry. I've got you." Instantly, Clark's hands are on her, holding her tight. And just like that, Lois's gaze is filled with a chestful of Clark. Or Clark's sandy cashmere coat, to be journalistically accurate. Upright and saved from an indecorous sidewalk face planting, Lois pulls away. She swats Clark playfully. "Good hands! Which should come as no surprise given the size of those mitts!"

Lois strides ahead of Clark on the street. She hears the hopping of his size fourteens on the pavement as he rushes to catch up. "I've still got some time," she says. She turns to Clark.

"Then, I've got an idea."

Clark's hand is over her eyes. "No peeking!" he commands (or as close to commanding as Clark Kent's likely to get). Lois listens for signs of the current location, but ambient sound yields little more than a hum - and the steady beat of Clark's heart. Lois knows she isn't hearing as much as feeling. His heart's thudding rapidly, and she wonders what has him so excited.

"Clark?"

"Yes?" He positions her, and Lois settles into a seat. With that, Clark's hand is gone.

Lois peers into the darkness. A gentle tap on her arm, and Lois looks up as the Planetarium lightshow begins. "It's one of my favorite places," Clark tells her. As an afterthought, he adds, "Did you want to ask me something?" Lois watches Clark slide down into the chair, reducing his considerable frame to child-size.

Lois continues watching Clark, his attention on the dissolving constellations. She too slides down into her chair. "No," she says finally. "Let's just enjoy the show."

Clark turns to her, his smile bright. Lois leans a little, enough so her head is on his shoulder. Clark doesn't seem to mind.

Lois wakes to a soft tap on her shoulder and the sound of her own snoring. Clark's peering down at her. "You fell as-"

"Did not," Lois states, stretching in the seat. Smoothing her clothes, she stands. "You ever find an apartment?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. It's right around the corn-"

Lois takes Clark by the hand. "Show me."

Clark puts the key in the lock and pushes the door, but manages to open it a maximum of five inches. "It's not really fit for company."

"I'm not company, Clark. I'm... _family_. " Lois breezes by him. "You know, in that weird way that people who work together are sorta related."

The interior's austere; the cupboards are bare. "I'm all about the takeout," Clark offers, a hint of trying too hard tingeing his voice.

Lois notices the bed's made, all tidy corners and pressed sheets, like a piece of furniture that's that for show, not use.

"Lois?" Clark's standing behind her. She feels the heat again, but this time, she's thinking it's not all him.

Lois turns at the sound of Clark's voice, pivoting enough to angle herself away as she shoves Clark through the doorway and onto the bed. Lois jumps on the bed after him. "It didn't look like you lived here. Now, it _does_." Lois bounces a few times, giggling, watching Clark's face move from shock and confusion to joy. She plops down on the bed next to him. "You're awful quiet."

"Lois, you're in my bed."

"And this is a problem why?"

"It's not a problem in the 'problem' sense of problem." Clark pauses, his eyes focused on the ceiling. "Have you ever met someone and it's almost like you're from totally different worlds, but you share such a strong connection that you knew you were destined to be with each other?"

"Sounds familiar." Lois rolls over, straddles Clark. "So, who is she?" She moves a clump of stray hair from his face.

"She's just a friend. A good friend. I think."

"Does she know?"

"Maybe. It's just... The situation's complicated."

Lois snorts knowingly. "Isn't it always?"

Clark shifts, pulling himself toward the headboard. "Apparently."

Lois follows, watching as Clark runs out of room. She's looking again at his mouth. Lois can't stop herself, and instantly, she's on it, searching his lips for connection.

Clark responds eagerly.

"Richard's a good man," Lois affirms between kisses. "You were gone for a long time."

"I sent postcards," Clark protests.

Lois's eyes are closed. She's wholly focused on the act and the attendant satisfaction of discovering Clark and his lips are highly talented. The insistent noise of a nearby ticking clock diverts her attention briefly. Peering through one eye, she notes the time. "Is that clock right?"

Clark mumbles through a fully engaged mouth. "Should be."

"Crap!" Lois is up and off the bed. "I've got to pick up Jason!" She's through the living room, shouting "Thanks! It was fun! We should hang out more often!" She's gone before Clark can protest.

Lois strides down the Metropolis streets. Her logic brain screams "fuck up"; her intuitive brain soothes with "high five." Heh. Who knew?


End file.
